


My Fair Lad

by caixa



Series: My Fair Lad [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boys Kissing, Cute, Dress Up, Fluff, Gay Bar, M/M, Manchester 2007, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9196457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caixa/pseuds/caixa
Summary: It starts from a jersey swap and turns to a grand night out.Kind of a Pygmalion-theme fairytale set in Manchester 2007.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has haunted me ever since I wrote a certain piece of dialogue in my first fic. There I made Cristiano wish he would have started dating Gareth during his years in Manchester.
> 
> This fic is basically based on this Cristiano's line:  
> “I should have kidnapped you. I would have dressed you in leather pants and a mesh shirt and taken you to the Canal Street clubs."
> 
> In the fic they talked about Gareth's Premier League debut game but in reality Cristiano didn't play in that match due to a red card he had got August 15th. They didn't meet once on Gareth's debut season 2007-2008, it took until March 2009 for them to play on the opposite ends of the pitch for the first time.
> 
> I wanted to write about Gareth very young (now I sound like a perv!) so I kept the setting in 2007 which makes this of course completely non-canon. I've taken a lot of fictional liberties in addition to that, too, I don't think Cristiano has ever had a loft apartment near Canal Street and I also think he would know a bit more about the other team's players than in this one. And the story itself is of course a complete fairytale.  
> (Edit: Because, if I've read right, in reality the very night this story is set in Cris hosted a 5-prostitute-orgy at his house honoring the victorious game.)
> 
> Fiction is fiction. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_I could have spread my wings_  
_and done a thousand things_  
_I’ve never done before_  
_I’ll never know what made it so exciting_  
_why all at once my heart took flight_  
_I only know when he_  
_began to dance with me_  
_I could have danced, danced, danced all night_

(Alan Jay Lerner, Frederick Loewe: I Could Have Danced All Night from My Fair Lady)

 

**Sunday, August 26th 2007**

**Manchester United – Tottenham Hotspur**

 

**0-0**

"Oi! Ronaldo!" Cristiano Ronaldo hears running steps approaching him when he’s leaving the green pitch of Old Trafford at halftime.

He turns his head. It’s the young Spurs player who even managed to get the ball from him one time but to no avail, no goals made yet in the game. No lack of trying on the boy’s behalf, though; he has been determined and composed but at the same time all over the place, and it shows. He pants lightly even though he’s eased his steps to a slow walk when he’s reached Cristiano’s side.

"Could we swa-... I mean can I - could I have your shirt after the game, please? Could we swap?"

The boy has surely rehearsed his line in his head beforehand and is blushing redder and redder every time he stumbles in his words. He sounds like he has fought a ton of embarrassment to ask the question and is feeling totally humiliated when his own speech fails him so awkwardly.

Cristiano gives the younger player his most reassuring smile. He's glad to be able to say yes to the request. The boy looks so confused and flushed that it would break Cristiano's heart to tell he's promised his red jersey to someone else.

Just thinking like that makes him feel old and wise. Not that he's ever been called either of those, not in all of his 22 and a half years.

"Yes, sure", he answers.

His opponent's worried face melts into one of the biggest, happiest smiles he has ever seen. It draws deep lines on the blushed, freckled cheeks, all the way from the corners of blue eyes that are set deep under prominent dark brows.

"Yeah – thanks. That's so great”, the young player says and picks up speed on his steps again. It seems like his shyness is winning over and he wants to escape the conversation to the visitors’ dressing room.

“Remind me again when we’ve beaten you!” Cristiano shouts to his back, the boy grins at him over his shoulder.

 

**1-0**

The young defender doesn’t smile as widely when he comes to Cristiano again when the second half is over. His brave play, like the way he’s broken away through United defenders and given a powerful pass to Dimitar Berbatov, has not led to a goal for Tottenham.

There is still a polite smile, maybe a smile of admiration even, when he catches Cristiano.

“You promised me your jersey after we beat you”, Cristiano says to the lad, smiling teasingly.

The boy frowns at his scoff, letting out a lazy mock chuckle, indicating Cristiano is not very funny.

“But you played good”, Cris continues apologetically.

“Well thanks. It was nice to get the minutes. And your shirt. This is my debut game, you know. I mean, it's so great to have that kind of a memory from it."

Cristiano is surprised. "Your first game, really? Well I'm honoured to have your shirt from it, then. You sure you don't want to keep it to yourself? As a memento?"

The boy shrugs. "No, thanks, it's OK. I don't know if I ever get to play against you again. 'Ave to take the opportunity. My mum and dad will understand."

His last line is so adorable it makes a part of Cristiano's heart melt and he struggles to keep a straight face. The boy has clearly slipped it without thinking how young it makes him sound, it's still a part of him to dedicate his footballing to his parents.

He surely can't play in the Premier League and still live with his parents, though? He doesn't sound like a Londoner and as a Spurs player he has to live at least near London.

Cristiano has been in England for four years now but can't quite point the player's dialect anyplace. He's not a scot like sir Alex Ferguson, that's for sure, the strrong r's are lacking and Cristiano can understand him without extra effort.

He'll have time to find it out later on. Now he should get over with the swap and hit the showers, then go home, sleep, prepare for the monday exercises. It was a winning game but just tightly, 1-0, and it bugs him that he didn't score the winning goal. Nani did, he knows he should happy for the follow Portuguese. He is. For sure.

 

Cristiano stops when they reach the entrance to the tunnel and clears his throat for a sign.

“Yeah, right”, the young player says and starts stripping off his white jersey. Cristiano hands him his (he hasn't hesitated to undress his shirt as soon as the game ended, he has no reason to be shy of his body), takes the sweaty Spurs shirt and stretches it in front of him, taking a moment to appreciate it, he knows he’s a star and for some reason he wants to make a nice impression on the young man, give him a lasting memory. In the back of his mind he hopes the boy - Bale, it reads in navy blue letters on the back of his shirt, over the large number 16 – doesn’t hold his gesture pretentious.

“You played good, Bale”, he says once again and he’s not lying. The new Tottenham guy played bold and brave football. He got plenty of glimpses of him fighting the ball, barging past the older United players like Giggsy and Rio Ferdinand with ruthless force and formidable pace. He even took a really threatening free kick but Ricardo Rocha’s header that was supposed to guide it in the goal went wide, lucky for Cristiano’s team.

“Full minutes and a free kick on your first game, not bad”, Cristiano acknowledges.

To Cristiano’s surprise his words don’t draw a wider smile on Bale’s face, instead he tilts his head towards his shoulder with a displeased sneer on his face, lips tight. “We didn’t win, so.” he says shrugging his shoulders. “But thanks. It was great to play. And congrats.”

“Thanks. But I didn’t score, so.” Cristiano mimics Bale’s shrug and is pleased to see the boy smile again.

 

Something about the player is so… nice, he can’t put a better word to it. Innocent, unassuming. Pure. How he is at ease with his body now, standing there in his dark blue shorts, Cristiano’s red jersey covering his right shoulder. How he was even more so when he was chasing the ball, moving it wherever he wanted.

Bale has a good frame. He’s tall and athletic, straight broad shoulders, narrow waist, long limbs. Everything is firm and toned from lifelong exercise, muscles still developing though, tight and flat now; after a couple of years of Premier League football he’s gonna be a statue, Cristiano thinks.

How long will it take? The lad could be anything between fifteen and his own age. He looks like a fast overgrown schoolboy; he is tall and sturdy but he has a teenager's face.

A very ordinary, very british teenager’s face. His skin is smooth, almost translucent, like thin white porcelain. The face is covered with freckles, blushes easily (it has flushed bright pink and back white again two or three times during their short chat, which is quite fascinating really, his cheeks are still a bit red).

Strong jaw, prominent underbite that pushes his full lower lip to a pout, a huge amount of dark brown hair matted together in strands with sweat, covering a pair of jug ears. Those must have been a pain to grow up with, Cristiano thinks and feels a flow of sympathy, he’s been there with his uneven yellow teeth (long gone, money gets you things) and acne (long gone too).

Not that the boy seems to be too fussed about how he looks. Cristiano is suddenly aware that Bale is following his gaze with an ambiguous expression on his face: a bit surprised, a bit amused, a bit smug and something that Cristiano can’t really read. _Seen enough_? the boy seems to ask with his eyes when Cristiano lifts his to meet them, look on them steady, surprisingly confident.

It could be Cristiano’s turn to blush and he thanks his genes for his skin not being prone to that. He pats Bale’s shoulder, hesitates for a moment but pulls him in a brief hug, bodies far apart, leaves the hug with another pat on the shoulder.

 

“Who did you get?” someone asks when Cristiano enters the home dressing room with the white jersey hanging neatly on his bare forearm. Cristiano folds it open to show it.

“Our boy! Gareth Bale!” Ryan Giggs notices.

“Ours?” Cristiano asks confused.

“Not ours, _ours_. Welsh boy. I’ve talked about him, he’s been with Wales men’s team over a year now.” he explains. That does ring a bell in Cristiano’s head, he has briefly overheard Giggsy wondering at the youth and the quality of some national team players. He hasn’t paid that much attention to it though, he hasn’t considered Wales a very interesting team on international scale. “One of your breed”, Giggs continues and points with his finger at Cristiano.

“What do you mean?” Cristiano is suspicious, is he being mocked?

“I mean a football machine in the making, taken to the academy from the crib. No, he’s a nice lad, true talent, trains like a madman, wants to learn everything. Sound familiar?” Giggs explains.

Cristiano chuckles and shrugs his shoulders a bit lopsidedly, unlacing his boots, taking off his shin guards. “How old is he?”

“Just turned eighteen. Got a transfer from Southampton this spring”, Giggs says. He sits bowed down, rubbing the soles of his feet with a towel and tilts his head to look at Cristiano with a hint of mischievousness in the corner of his eye. “No jailbait, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Cristiano suppresses his instinct to snap back ‘ _no, I wasn’t asking that_ ’ and chooses to ignore the last remark.

  
It bothers him, though, what his older teammate said. Giggsy has made Cristiano a number of gay jokes since he got his new town flat, a luxurious loft near Canal Street. The area is called gay village and well, it lives up to its name but so what? It doesn’t make the loft a bit less lavish. Most days he still drives back to his Cheshire estate, his life is mostly football, eating and rest anyway, so what does it matter where he stays when he’s out on the town?

He dates girls, a lot, anybody who sees tabloid covers knows it without even having to bother to read the stories.

He has left with boys from clubs or parties too, but nobody has to know that. Nobody should know that. Surely Giggsy doesn’t, so he can ignore his lame jailbait joke on the overgrown Welsh schoolboy whose tight, fast muscles are just starting to bulk up and whose blue eyes had a look he couldn’t quite read.

 

Cristiano showers quickly, dries himself and gets to his street clothes faster than usual, spends less time straightening his hair in front of the mirror than it usually takes.

He has never been that interested in things that don’t concern himself directly, but at least he knows which way the visiting teams usually go back to their buses.

He might just go that way out himself. Nobody is waiting for him anywhere and he doesn’t mind the extra steps to walk to his car, any kind of cooldown exercise is as good as another.

 

He doesn’t have to wait embarrassingly long to find Gareth Bale.

He has a few words with him.

Gareth has a few words with his coach, he has to run a few steps to catch Jol before he steps in the bus. He gets a nod of approval, thanks, waves his hand for goodbye, walks away from the team bus, his duffel bag hanging on his shoulder.

He grins like a boy whose mother has just let him go for a surprise sleepover at his best friend’s house on a schoolnight.

He follows Cristiano to his car.

 

Gareth has a feeling that he’s dreaming. He has no idea why in the world does CRISTIANO RONALDO for fuck’s sake want to hang out with him but he has not had the time to get suspicious, his blood is rushing to his ears and he has to gather his strength to just stay cool and go with the flow. He keeps saying inside his head _please please please please don’t say no_ when he goes to his coach to ask when he should be in practice tomorrow and if it’s ok to stay behind in Manchester, he has stuff here. Oh God he’s grateful when Martin Jol says it’s ok, they will rest Monday morning, have a meeting with videos from the game in the afternoon.

But shit he has to stop thinking CRISTIANO RONALDO in block letters right now because it is making him look like a fucking idiot, he feels a bit like one already because he has no idea what this is about.

It gets easier when they are in the car. CRIS… Cristiano Ronaldo’s car is nice, but every footballer he knows has a nice car. He is not so jumpy anymore when the usual post-game emptiness starts settling in, the adrenalin buzz diluting from his mind and body, tiredness muting down the rush of blood.

He’d like to memorize every detail of what he is experiencing right now but in reality they don’t talk much, his host seems concentrated on driving and he is too absent-minded to absorb the details of the street view passing behind the car windows.

Cristiano’s place is on the top floor of an old industrial building, red brick walls, huge factory windows. Its vast floor is open plan throughout, sleek oak kitchen in one end, huge metal four-poster bed in another, stylish giant sofas, coffee tables, a couple of delicate antique chairs and whatnot expensive design stuff scattered, generously spaced, along the middle.

 

Cristiano has started to have his doubts about his idea. What the fuck, has he really done it, asked that, uhm, what should he even call him, complete stranger _out_? Or what is it technically, is it better or worse that he just talked about hanging out but takes the guy straight _home_ with him?

Is he really this lonely? Is he really this confused?

The boy (Gareth Bale, Gareth Bale, he has a name, don’t call him just a _boy_ ) is wary or bored, he’s fallen so silent, barely utters a word during the drive.

In Cristiano’s new flat (the gay village loft some people like to make fun about, but Cristiano thinks the interior designer he hired has done a great job) he glances around, drops his duffel bag straight to the floor as soon as he steps in.

“Welcome, sit anywhere you want”, Cristiano says. The boy ( _Gareth!_ ) chooses a big soft sofa that’s facing the kitchen area, lifts his one foot up on the corner piece, rests the other one on the floor, sinks his back in the cushions, arms sprawled wide. Cristiano offers him water, he drinks gratefully.

He looks like he could fall asleep, Cristiano notices. He understands immediately how the boy ( _Gareth!_ ) feels down to his bones, he has barely stopped growing and his style of play is so strenuous. He’s drained.

Cristiano has no problem with that.

“You can rest, it’s ok”, he says.

“Thanks”, Gareth says, smiles at him and hides his blue eyes behind his eyelids, relaxing completely on the cushions of the designer sofa.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gareth during the game:
> 
>  
> 
> [Embed from Getty Images](http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/76333975)  
> 
> 
> Cristiano during the game:
> 
>  
> 
> [Embed from Getty Images](http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/76333979)  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

 

“Here, Gareth. This is the best recovery drink in the world”.

Gareth jolts back into reality. God, he was just resting his eyes for a… he didn’t fall asleep, did he? On CRISTIANO… Cristiano Ronaldo’s designer sofa?

Cristiano has a soft smile, lopsided, Elvis-like, not the giant winner grin, and he is handing Gareth a glass that’s full of light yellow thick gooey liquid, yes, Gareth heard a blender buzzing through his sl- he means rest. Means that Cristiano has made him a smoothie by himself, how cool is that? And man he looks stylish, he’s showered and changed and everything, curls tamed shiny and black with hair gel, fitting white button-down shirt, sleeves curled near the elbows to show the bronzed, muscled arms; dark blue jeans, a bit flared, from some very shiny denim material, designer sneakers.

Gareth lifts himself upright, lowers his foot on the floor, sits on the edge of the sofa leaning his other elbow to his knee, takes the glass. It’s not delicious, a typical sports shop protein powder tastes through some fruit and a mixture of superfoods, but it has to be healthy, since Cristiano seems to be sipping some himself.

“So, Gareth, how is Premier league?” Cristiano asks in his throaty, heavily accented English.

“I enjoyed myself today really. Apart from the result, obviously”, Gareth says.

It’s such a generic interview answer, and he falls silent again after saying it. Cristiano tries poking him with a few more questions, with the same result. Frustrating. Somehow he’d like to get the boy to open up a bit, or he starts to suspect he doesn’t even like him.

That can’t happen, can it?

“Are you seeing anyone? A girlfriend?” he hears himself ask.

That lures a shy smile on the lips, a twinkle in the eyes. “Yeah, I am.”

“Is it serious?”

Gareth tilts his head from side to side, smiling. “I guess. We’ve been talking about moving in together someday. If everything goes right for me in London. When she finishes school.”

“That’s nice”, Cristiano says and means it. Not necessarily the girlfriend part, or the part that it’s serious, but it’s a relief that Gareth can actually talk about something personal to him.

 

Cristiano stands up from the coffee table he’s been sitting on talking to Gareth and puts on some music. He hasn’t usually ever been home in silence this long, but he didn’t want to disturb the tired younger player before.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks over his shoulder. “We should go out celebrate your first game.”

It surprises Gareth. “It’s Sunday”, he says.

“So?”

Gareth shrugs. “I guess, yes”, he says even though he is not actually sure if he wants to. He’s not prepared.

Cristiano looks at him up and down; Gareth is wearing his clean set of Spurs training clothes and running shoes and that just doesn’t do.

“C’mon, stand up”, Cristiano says and when Gareth does, he steps right in front of him, measuring the boy with his eyes. They’re close enough in size, he can borrow his clothes.

Except ... Gareth’s feet are huge. Cristiano asks his size. Yup, none of his shoes will fit.

Cristiano grabs his phone and goes through a sliding door to his walk-in closet, going through shelves and racks, talking on the phone in Portuguese. He comes back with his findings, tosses them to Gareth and goes on talking, this time in English.

“Black leather, yeah. Something you can wear with black to a club. Blazer sounds just fine… High or low? No, I mean the Air Force one? Yes. Red is ok… What? No, red swoosh and sole but black shoe… Of course I’m sure of the size. What? No, they’re not for me.” Cristiano pauses, looks at Gareth who obviously listens, looking quite puzzled. “You have them? Great, thanks a lot! Send them both. To the loft. As soon as you can. He’s leaving now? Yes. This is so great, really. Thank you, thank you so much.”

Cristiano puts his phone down and pumps his fist in the air.

“Yes! This is happening.”

“What is happening?” Gareth asks.

“You are. Now change”, Cristiano gestures to the clothes he’s given Gareth. “Or do you need to shower first?”

Gareth says no to the shower and looks questioningly at the clothes. Not something he’d buy for himself, but… he doesn’t want to say no to Cristiano, not without trying at least.

“You can change in the closet or the bathroom if you want”, Cristiano offers, but Gareth just shrugs his shoulders and starts undressing, why not, he’s spent a notable part of his life in shared showers and dressing rooms anyway.

Cristiano watches him closely.

“No underwear. We don’t want to see panty lines”, he says and Gareth almost protests but decides against himself. He turns his back carefully to Cristiano when he pulls the black leather pants over his long legs, he’s not quite that comfortable under the star player’s watchful eye.

The trousers fit, not as snugly as they’d be on Cristiano, but they stay decently up around Gareth’s hipbones and his butt fills them nicely enough. The shirt’s not bad either, Cristiano thinks, when Gareth pulls on the black sleeveless top. It shows Gareth’s toned back muscles through the translucent mesh material; front offers a little more coverage because of the strips of black faux leather sown over the same mesh fabric in a Union Jack –style double cross.

“Wow”, Cristiano says, and this time he means every single one of the three letters. “Come, I want to try something.”

 

Gareth follows Cristiano to the bathroom. The Portuguese goes through a drawer and finds, much to Gareth’s horror, an eyeliner pencil and some mascara. He rummages more and there is some black eyeshadow and a brush.

“Close your eyes and stay still”, Cristiano says.

Gareth does as told. Cristiano’s fingers grab gently his chin and the other hand leans lightly on his cheekbone when the brush strokes his eyelid. It feels odd and he has to fight against the eye watering up, the sensation is close to making his nose run at the same time.

“I need to blink”, he says, Cristiano lets him and continues with the eyeliner pencil on the edge of the eyelid. It presses a bit harder than the brush, but it helps when Gareth concentrates on the fingers stabilizing his chin and the fist resting on his cheekbone.

Cristiano tells him to open his eyes and look up and applies the pencil under the eye. It feels unpleasant but it can’t be that bad, girls do it all the time, Gareth reminds himself.

That was just the first eye. The second is almost routine, fingers on his chin, fist on his cheekbone, brush stroking the eyelid, pencil drawing on the root of his eyelashes, Cristiano’s breath on his skin.

“Ok, you can look now”, Cristiano says and Gareth looks in the mirror. God, he looks like a panda.

“No you don’t”, Cristiano protests. “Wait till I do your lashes.”

But before he starts to do that he needs to buzz in a delivery guy. Gareth peeks from the bathroom door to see two Nike shoe boxes being piled on Cristiano’s arms.

Cristiano thanks, places them on the floor and returns to the bathroom.

“Lashes”, he says. “Keep your eyes open and look down.”

How can Cristiano be so good at something like this? He rests his little finger very tenderly under Gareth’s eye when he applies the mascara on his upper lashes, then tells him to look up and continues with the lower lashes. Gareth only needs to stay still and try to keep his nose and eyes dry and he can barely manage that.

He still thinks he looks kind of like a panda, but Cristiano looks so pleased and proud that he doesn’t say a thing. He lets Cristiano continue, the Portuguese takes some hair wax on his hands, rubs them together and runs them through his hair and it feels funny, having somebody else’s hands in his hair. Cristiano combs and brushes it with his fingers, taking a step backwards to check it out better.

Cristiano leads him out of the bathroom by his arm. He looks at himself in the large mirror on the wall and hardly recognizes himself. He doesn’t look that bad, just… different.

Cristiano stands behind him, wraps his arm around his black mesh back and pale muscled arm, presses his chin on his shoulder and looks at their reflection in the mirror with a smug smile.

“You’re the hottest fucking emo boy arm candy anybody has ever had”, he murmurs close to Gareth’s ear. “Now let’s choose your shoes and go clubbing.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't imagine Cristiano ever calling (or having called!) Gareth Bale "emo boy arm candy" in real life :) can you?


	3. Chapter 3

  

They have fun eating sushi. They have fun over espressos in the café next door to the sushi place. Nothing special: every little thing they say and every little thing around them just earns another guffaw of laughter.

Cristiano is so cute laughing, the way his upper teeth show out and his lower lip pulls back, eyes squint narrow and deep curving laugh lines frame his face. He looks so completely absorbed in the laughter, the very essence of having fun, at that moment, like the whole world exists to delight him and he accepts it with total lack of self-consciousness.

 

Cristiano laughs out of sheer happiness. He feels at ease.

He hasn’t admitted it to anybody but he likes the neighbourhood of his in-town spot. Sometimes, when nobody is around in his large Cheshire country home, he doesn’t want to drive there to be alone and comes to sleep in the loft instead. He’s alone there, too, but it feels less lonely in the city.

His loft’s garage has been under construction some time now and he has to park his car a block further. If he comes back late from match or from training, he doesn’t always walk straight home. He chooses a longer route around a couple of blocks, just to take a walk on Canal Street. He pulls his hood deep over his head, listens to people talk and laugh around him, music from bars, thumping distant bass from nightclubs, sees reflections of colourful lights on the water of the canal.

He avoids Fridays and Saturdays, when the street gets crowded with groups of giggling girls celebrating their hen nights or wide-eyed tourists. He likes the odd weekdays better, Tuesdays or Sundays like this. It’s quieter then, more regular. Still lively and buzzing around certain blocks.

There are happy established couples hand in hand, circles of friends partying, single guys in the group eyeing around for someone interesting. He may gaze at them warily, even smile if the guy is cute but most of the time he senses the pressure of his fame like weight on his shoulders; he is far too famous to hang around here very casually, very often. The occasional walk through, hood deep over his head, must suffice.

It would be so different to be there _with somebody_.

Now he is. _That_ is what makes him happy.

He knows he pushes his luck. He knows he pushes _Gareth’s_ luck and he knows he’s not really entitled to do that and it gives him a sting of guilt. He’s horrible to risk the reputation of a 18-year-old Premier League debutant. A shit sweet Premier League debutant whose girlfriend wants to move in with him when she finishes school, if everything goes right for his boyfriend.

If Cristiano doesn’t blow everything in his face just for one night of fun.

 

Somehow he feels he won’t. Something about this night feels magically secure. For one night he can be untouchable. They can be untouchable.

It can happen, sure? If he just goes with the flow.

Hell, hasn’t he just got two pairs of sold out Nike shoes delivered to his door on a Sunday night with two rightly placed phone calls? See, anything can happen.

And Gareth looks so hot in his black leather high tops that match perfectly with Cristiano’s leather pants on his beautiful long legs.

He’s so proud of his boy.

 

The club is dark and loud. It’s one where Cristiano has been before and where he has returned because he has been treated there like anybody, like a nobody.

He likes the music, too. It’s mainly mid tempo hip hop and r’n’b, seductive thumping basslines, suggestive and explicit lyrics if one bothers to listen.

He buys them drinks, strong tasting cranberry juice with a dash of vodka, he dissuades Gareth to drink it down and feels a bit bad, again, when he realizes that Gareth didn’t really want it.

He takes Gareth by the hand and drags him to the dance floor. He doesn’t really want that, either.

“I don’t dance”, he shouts in Cristiano’s ear, close enough for his breath to steam on his earlobe and the sound waves to tickle his eardrum.

“I’ll help you”, Cristiano answers, moves closer, takes him lightly by the hips, directs him to sway in unison with his movements, to the rhythm of the music, not too fast, not too slow, natural for anybody with a heartbeat.

Gareth laughs and shakes his head. “What if I just lean against the wall and you grind on me?” he suggests.

Cristiano takes that as a legitimate cue for action. He starts making his way to the back wall of the dance floor, between the bodies moving to the music, they are but black shadows outlined by auras of the laser lighting above the dancing mass.

Gareth has to walk backwards in front of him. Cristiano likes how he trusts him, doesn’t even blink, doesn’t turn his head to see where they are going, lets Cristiano lead.

Cristiano slows their steps when he approaches the wall. Gareth senses it behind his back, doesn’t have to hit it. He eases himself leaning to it softly, casually.

The way he knows exactly what he’s doing, how to position himself. _True talent_ , Giggsy said.

Cristiano rocks his body from side to side, slowly, to every second beat of the song, slides one foot between Gareth’s new sneakers, the other outside, until he is close, very close. He feels the knee brush between his, lets it be there just slightly, whenever he sways close enough for the thighs or the knees to touch he shivers.

And Gareth, he just leans his back to the wall, looks in Cristiano's eyes with gaze so straight and deep, the light blue eyes framed with the wide black lines Cristiano drew around them, hands on the boy’s freckled porcelain skin.

Chin relaxed, lips parted. God, that natural pout.

Gareth’s pushy lower lip mesmerizes Cristiano, he has to lean forward and nibble it, just a little, with the very edges of his lips, one, two, three, four.

He pulls back and looks at Gareth’s eyes, hears his breath, sees his chest heaving. Gareth looks back at his eyes, then his lips.

Gareth leans forward, kisses him back, attacks. It’s a horny teenager making out kind of a kiss: Gareth forces his tongue too fast too deep in his mouth, hits inside of his lips with his teeth. It’s wet, smothering, hard and suffocating and it’s the hottest thing Cristiano has felt for a long time.

He opens his mouth wide, welcomes the boy, holy shit he’s loving this. He presses Gareth’s body to the wall with his but keeps his neck relaxed, allows Gareth the space to dominate the kiss because he wants all of it, the wet rough tongue licking places deep in his mouth.

Gareth is grabbing the front of his shirt in one fist, caresses the back of his neck with his other hand, fingertips on the hairline.

Cristiano moves his hands from the sides of Gareth’s hips, one up to his throat, the other down on his ass. So fucking hot, movement of the larynx under the skin on Gareth’s neck against the palm of his hand, pulse points on his fingertips. And the muscle under his other hand, under the warm leather – Cristiano realizes he has never felt another footballer’s body like this before and he likes how familiar it feels, he knows how the muscles have been used to shape them the way they press against his hand, against his own body.

This is so totally hot and sexy, pure curious young lust. If Cristiano had the power he would let it get completely out of hand.

They need to breathe.

Cristiano pulls gently back from the kiss. Gareth’s eye make-up is smudged and a little runny, he reminds Cristiano a bit of the Green Day singer and he thinks he’s even more beautiful than before. He moves his hand up from Gareth’s throat, caresses is jawline with his fingers, traces the edge of his lip with the tip of his thumb.

Gareth looks at him with those magical pale blue eyes, eyelashes heavy from clotted mascara, eyebrows naturally just as dark.

Cristiano sweeps his thumb heavier on that big lower lip, rubs it, pushes his thumb inside the mouth. He grazes it along the underbite teeth, presses the tongue, plays with it, teases it to join the play, lick the tip of the thumb. He pushes his thumb as deep as he can, pressing it to the back of Gareth’s tongue. Cristiano doesn’t know why he wants to do this, he just feels like it, wants to explore and conquer the boy’s mouth like Gareth did to him with his tongue a minute ago.

The way the lips close around his thumb, the eyes close and eyelids flutter. Gareth sucks his thumb, opens his eyes, looks straight back at him, confident; lets the thumb go, gives it a nice lick on its way out. It’s so wet now, Cristiano wipes it on Gareth’s lips that curve into a smile.

_A machine in the making. Wants to learn everything._

Cristiano leans his body to Gareth, rocks slowly, kisses his lips softly.

“And you said you don’t dance”, he hums close into his ear through a smile.

Gareth laughs softly as a response and pulls Cristiano back to a kiss, his thumbs in the belt loops of Cristiano’s jeans, the way he uses them to pull his hips close to his own makes Cristiano’s head spin.

Not bad for a first game.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

The shiny white bathroom in Cristiano’s loft is the brightest lit environment they’ve been during the last few hours.

Gareth doesn’t close the door going to the loo and Cristiano forgives himself being comfortable with it. When he hears Gareth finish he is tempted to walk in on him to see him cram his dick back in his leather pants. _His_ leather pants.

It turns him on to think he can wear them any day now, straight off the welsh boy who he made wear them commando, naked underneath.

How close Gareth has already let him touch him, and in such a place, surrounded by strangers and darkness and music, faint smell of cranberry vodka in his breath.

 

He hears water flow from the tap and finally goes in.

Gareth is splashing water on his face by the basin. He lifts his head, water dripping from his chin, lips and nose, black streams of make-up running under his eyes.

He looks like some old school rock star like that, barefoot and shirtless, black leather pants low around his hips. Zipper’s up, waist button hangs open. A narrow line of hair under the flat small belly button disappears down there.

He smiles at Cristiano.

“You have something to get this off with?” he gestures to his face.

Droplets of water drip from his chin to his chest and roll down his abs, Cristiano follows them with his gaze.

“Let me help”, Cristiano says. “It’s my mess on your face. I’ll clean it up.” He says it slowly, with a naughty smile and Gareth blushes like he had said something dirty.

Cristiano taps Gareth’s face with a towel. He gets a bottle of cleanser and cotton pads and steps right next to Gareth, in his space. He leans his weight on one foot, the other leg bent on the knee, touching Gareth’s. He’s been allowed so near him already and he is going to stick to it, not let the distance grow gradually again.

Moist cotton pad in his fingers wipes gently over Gareth’s closed eyes. Cristiano takes his time, changes to a new one after each couple of wipes. The blackness fades little by little.

“Ready”, Cristiano says. Gareth looks at his fresh face in the mirror, delighted to see it clean again. He turns to the basin to rinse off the greasy feeling from the cleanser.

Cristiano stays by his side, leaning to the tabletop under the basin, bent knee brushing Gareth’s leg. He watches closely his every move.

Gareth straightens up and looks for a towel. Cristiano doesn’t give it to him; he turns Gareth by his hip facing him and wipes and pats his face dry, keeping his other hand on the boy’s hip, half on the leather waistband, half on his bare skin.

“My boy”, he says and puts the towel away.

Gareth feels like saying that he’s not his boy but doesn’t. “Can I take a shower?” he asks instead.

Cristiano leads him to the other bathroom, the one with a shower and a bathtub, shows where he can find towels.

“Want company?” he asks.

Gareth giggles and shakes his head.

“Rather not. When we share a dressing room you can watch me all you want.”

“It may never happen”, Cristiano says.

Gareth smiles and tilts his head sideways. “There’s a career goal for you”, he replies, winks and closes the bathroom door.

 

When he comes out towel around his waist he finds the bed opened but empty. Cristiano walks in the room dressed in black boxer shorts, with a duvet over his arm and a pillow in his hand. He glances over the sofas and decides on one nearest to the bed, facing its way, throws the pillow and duvet there.

“Gareth, you take the bed, please”, he says.

“It’s yours! Sofa is just fine”, Gareth says.

Cristiano has already stretched himself on the sofa and draws the duvet over his picture-perfect tanned body. “You’re the guest, Gareth. Good night.”

“Thanks, Cristiano. Good night.” Gareth drops his towel down and slips in the bed. “Thanks for everything. I had a great time.”

 

Gareth shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, he sees a faint glow in the dark room. Cristiano’s brown eyes are open and he is looking Gareth’s way.

Gareth smiles slightly although Cristiano will hardly see it in the dark. He sees Cristiano turn on his other side and stares at his hairline, even in the murky room it’s clear where the black hair starts curling on the bronzed neck. Gareth remembers the hairline on his fingertips, how audacious and daring it felt to kiss Cristiano, how hot his body was pressing him to the wall in the dark crowded club. _Gay_ club.

He would have never imagined. Never ever.

 

Cristiano can’t sleep. He feels his heart beat in every spot of his body, his throat, his fingertips, between his legs. Especially between his legs.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He counts to a hundred and turns to his other side again.

He can’t force his eyes to keep shut so he opens them.

Gareth is looking at him across the room. He sees his eyes glisten in the darkness.

The silent buzz of thick static electricity that tarries heavy on the bee line between the bed and the sofa could not be any clearer if it was lit neon green.

 

Gareth knows he’s done too much already. He has a girlfriend. He does not have a celebrity freebie list with Cristiano Ronaldo’s name on it (he doesn’t have one at all, but if he did, maybe he should replace Emma Watson with Cristiano).

He can’t tell her about this. He won’t. If somebody has spotted them, then it’s different. Then the whole world knows. That’s it. Either she doesn’t know or she knows because the whole world knows.

Knows what? That Cristiano Ronaldo and Gareth Bale were seen making out against the wall of a gay club on the most famous gay district in Britain.

Or that Cristiano Ronaldo was seen making out with some unrecognized kid in leather pants, see-through tank top and too much black eye make-up.

He thinks of the way Cristiano’s eyes were glazed and breath came out so heavy and loud between the parted full lips when he sucked his thumb.

The same eyes are staring at him right now through the dark night air. He sees and _feels_ the gaze in Cristiano’s apartment where he tries to sleep in Cristiano’s bed.

The situation is completely ridiculous because neither of them is sleeping and the modern, angular steel version of a four-poster canopy bed could fit a family. Two people can sleep in it and they won’t even have to touch.

Unless they want to, of course.

Which leads him to think that maybe, _maybe_ , it’s better this way.

 

Cristiano sees Gareth slide out of the bed. He thinks he’s going to the toilet but he’s not, he is coming his way. Gareth stands naked next to his sofa, lifts his duvet and extends his hand. How can anybody be so vulnerable and so confident at the same time?

Gareth opens his mouth as if to say something but doesn’t. He needs no words.

Cristiano takes his hand and follows him.

Gareth doesn’t talk until they are in the bed.

“We are not doing anything, you know? I mean not… that.” He looks so serious it’s close to angry. “I just think it’s stupid to try sleep so far apart.”

Cristiano shuts him up with a kiss.

“And I have a girlfriend.”

Cristiano shuts him up with another kiss.

“And you need to help me get to London tomorrow.”

To that Cristiano nods. “I’ll drive you. To the train station. If there’s no good train, I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks.”

“And if you break up with your girlfriend, call me, will you?” Cristiano says and laughs. The little light spots in his eyes glow and laugh lines frame his cheeks.

“I don’t have your number.”

“You have it on the back of my jersey if you don’t remember it”, Cristiano teases.

“Not funny.”

“You’ll get it. First thing in the morning. And I’ll save yours.” Cristiano doesn’t laugh to that, he looks Gareth in the eye all serious.

“Deal”, Gareth says, rolls halfway on top of Cristiano and seals the promise with a kiss on his lips.

 

Full minutes and a free kick. Cristiano Ronaldo’s shirt.

Cristiano Ronaldo.

Not bad for a debut game, not bad at all.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The end!
> 
> For anyone interested in fact (or tabloid journalism and its priceless headlines) besides fiction, here's a link to a Sunday Mirror interview on the party mentioned in the beginning notes:  
> https://www.thefreelibrary.com/When+I+saw+it+was+Ronaldo+I+said+I'd+do+it+FOR+FREE%3B+EXCLUSIVE...-a0168257263
> 
> Thanks for reading sweetie darlings! Comments and kudos highly appreciated.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [My Fair Lad [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14918603) by [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit)




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